Bittersweet Symphony
by Piper Sargasso
Summary: Mulder's fragmented thoughts.


Bittersweet Symphony

By Piper Sargasso

Disclaimer: Characters within are the creation and property of 1013 productions, 

CC, etc. Lyrics to "Bittersweet Symphony" are reprinted without permission and 

are the property of The Verve. Hey, if they stole the tune from the Rolling 

Stones, why can't I have the words? 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

~Well I've never prayed, but tonight I'm on my knees, yeah.

I need to hear some sounds that recognize the pain in me, yeah.~

He sits on his couch, not caring that his ass sinks between cushions well worn 

and pulling from each other. The room is dark, save for the blue flicker of the 

silent television and the weak light of a streetlamp shining through the window 

above his desk. 

She sits there, too, unaffected or maybe just too uncomfortable by the strange 

silence to comment. Confused as well, to be sure -- when she'd seen him last, 

he was elated to find his sister in a better place. Gone forever, yes, but a 

sweet angel dancing in the starlit heavens for all eternity. Now he is bitter, 

aloof. Angry.

He ignores her presence, takes none of the usual comfort in it. He's too wrapped 

up in his thoughts and the violent maelstrom of emotions pushing him to the 

brink of blinding fury. Haphazard memories flit through his mind. They are 

unfettered and fleeting, all connecting with his mother. 

A summer in a cabin by the lake, playing tag with his sister and another 

vacationing family's children. His mother assuring him with laughing eyes and a 

pat on the head that of course Santa is real. The day he'd played hooky from 

school – he didn't think she knew he was faking, but now he knew better. She 

looked at him with knowing eyes as he shuffled through the kitchen in search of 

a glass of juice. She asked him if he wanted to help her with the bread and he'd 

eagerly said yes, forgetting his imaginary illness in the face of the rare and 

exciting treat of time spent alone together. She smiled at him and wiped her 

hands on her apron, and he smiled back. Her hair was upswept but falling down 

around her face in wispy tendrils, her lips touched with red lipstick and white 

flour decorating her cheek. He thought he'd never seen a real person more 

beautiful than his mother at that moment as they stood there, sharing that 

secretive smile.

Then Samantha had been taken. 

It was years before he saw his mother smile again. His family had been ripped 

apart by lies and deceit he still can't claim to comprehend. Somehow this 

woman, this saint he'd adored his entire life, had become someone he couldn't 

trust. More than that, she'd become an enemy; perhaps an even greater 

enemy than the chain-smoking bastard she'd shared her bed with. From him, 

subterfuge was expected. Who would ever have suspected that his own mother 

would be so cruel, going so far to hide the truth that she so selfishly 

destroyed the last straw he had left to grasp – herself. 

And whom was she protecting? Him, or herself? The question echoes in his head, 

useless and unanswered. Never will be answered. Never could be. All the main 

players took those answers to their graves, leaving nothing but a wide-eyed 

little boy behind begging to know the truth. 

What does it matter now? If an eight year old little girl hadn't been taken from 

her home one mild November night, if the Mulder family children had been 

allowed to grow and live their predisposed path of happily ignorant bliss, of 

happily rewarded ambition, how would things have turned out? Married parents 

who tolerate each other and smile for appearance's sake, a successful 

psychiatry practice, kids and a minivan? Or, would he still have plunged 

headfirst into the Bureau, climbing that addictive ladder to the topmost rung? 

Would he have maybe even bumped into Scully one fine day, the woman who 

has stood beside him without asking anything in return – as she does now – and 

pursued a relationship with her, unfettered by the restraints of partnership?

There would be no X-Files, no insomnia, no career pissed away. There would be 

fewer scars, fewer losses, less turmoil. He wonders why his thoughts have run 

into this vein. It's ultimately useless anyway; their fate has been sealed.

His gaze settles on the windowpane above his desk, gummed from masking 

tape glue baked on by the sun. No answers would be coming from that quarter 

ever again. He would never know just how deeply his mother was involved. Did 

he really want to? Wasn't it enough to remember the silence he suffered after 

Samantha's abduction, the piercing, accusatory glares? 

Did she ever love him?

He's tired, bone-weary and sick in his soul. He feels a shift to his side, the 

first movement his partner has made since letting herself into his apartment and 

sitting down beside him in silence. He wants to bury his head in her lap and 

forget everything he has learned in the past few days. He wants her to banish 

his mother's deceitful voice in his head insisting that she "just doesn't 

remember," that it was "so long ago." Too many questions, no one left to answer 

them. Soothe it away with the soft rasp of her comforting voice.

He gives in to the impulse with no further thought and lays his heavy head on 

top of her legs. She doesn't stop him, only strokes his hair with a gentle hand. 

Fear and loss and pain rolls through him and he can no longer hold back the 

bitter flood of tears. He's sobbing so hard that his body shakes from the 

tremendous effort, but she continues to stroke him and whispers calming words. 

"We'll get through this, Mulder. Together."

It's the first honest thing he's heard in a lifetime. 

~ "I let the melody shine, let it cleanse my mind, I feel free now.

But the airwaves are clean and there's nobody singing to me now." ~

The End


End file.
